


Shit Town, USA

by nevtelenwriting



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Blowjobs, Character Reflection, Character Study, Child Abuse, First Kiss, I don't know man 8 years of fanfic writing and I still don't know how to tag, Just not graphic atm, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Mostly Billy Complaining About Things, depictions of violence, identity crisis, use of slurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 01:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13400718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevtelenwriting/pseuds/nevtelenwriting
Summary: Or that 4 + 1 fic no one wanted.4 Times Steve says he loves Billy, and the 1 time it takes for Billy to believe it.But mostly, a giant-ass reflection on Billy's weird fucking senior year in Shit Town, USA





	Shit Town, USA

**Author's Note:**

> *crawls out of hibernation* Wellp. I blame tumblr for shipping these two. Also needed a break from the original story I'm working on--which is also why I have not posted any fanfic in a thousand years. 450 pages and counting on that one. 
> 
> IDK this is mostly Billy reflecting on the Fuckery that is his life, the mostly bad but sometimes nice aspects known as Steve Harrington. Also, some sappiness.
> 
> Work keeps making me put off posting this BUT I wanted to post the first bit before I lost my resolve, so enjoy! I will post the rest soon, and this time I mean it because it's essentially done, I just need to tweak.

Billy cried the fourth time Steve said 'I love you."

Alright, so it took Billy some time to process, fuck you very much.

The first time he said it was spring of their senior year in Shit Town. Neil hadn't found the need to lay into him for a full week, and the bags under Harrington’s eyes were starting to fade a little. Somewhere a few months before that they started fucking. No, it wasn't Billy that made the first move.

Usually Billy wasn’t slow on the uptake, but to be fair, this was  _Steve fucking Harrington_ , weird mom friend and supposedly a retired douchebag, and Billy was Billy, who was not exactly a gushy romance movie harlot.

Two months after that incident in the Byers's house Billy had unwillingly simmered down, mostly due to his balls constricting into his body every time he thought of seeing that death bat again. He had to hand it to the little shit, he’d finally found her breaking point. Everyone had one, it was only a matter of time.

Unfortunately, he didn't have Max as an outlet anymore either, so that meant Billy had few options. Meaning, once Harrington could walk without wincing—the fucking baby, it wasn't even that bad—Billy started riling him up every chance he got, and to be honest he wasn't sure if he was threatening or flirting anymore. Harmless either way, and so long as Harrington threw the first punch, it wasn't on Billy. 

Through the New Year Harrington never took his bait, either ignoring him or too tired to comprehend Billy's remarks. He had impressive lines under his eyes and more than once Billy caught him nodding off in class. As far as Billy was aware Harrington didn't do much other than come to school, go to practice, and drive home. He talked to his ex-cow and her freak boyfriend more than a cheater should warrant, and he was a little confused as to whether the lisping kid was his brother or not, but whatever, it wasn't Billy's business. Harrington didn't seem to have anyone but the brats he chaperoned after he picked up Max. He might have been concerned how much time an almost-adult was spending with a bunch of children, but that required Max being helpless on top of being an ungrateful shit stain. He doubted it, but if it did ever happen Billy would kill Harrington for being a perverted fuckwad anyway. 

It was easy to pick at him for it, said as much about the perverted thing enough for Harrington to look at him like someone had kicked his puppy and kicked him in the stomach all in one roundhouse go. Billy maybe didn't say that dig again, if only that Harrington literally left the two times he tried it. But it should have been easy to get a rise out of him regardless, or just make him crack. Everyone had their breaking point, after all.

It took Harrington two months, with the occasional, half-hearted, “Shut up, Hargrove,” but like flipping a switch Harrington snapped. He reacted, finally, though not in the way Billy expected.

"Stop pulling my pigtails, Christ!" He yelled at Billy, when they were alone in the showers again and Billy had loitered behind to wheedle a few more jabs for the day.

Billy didn't get what that meant, but ended up laughing, "Wow, Harrington, if you wanted to be  _Princess_ Steve instead of King, all you had to do was ask."

Harrington did not back down, but cornered Billy in the damn shower, hair slicked back without all the product and every line in his face creased with exasperation. He backed Billy against the tiles alone in the stalls all without touching but still way too close for comfort. Billy had already balled his fist up to get him out of his face when Harrington said, " _Seriously,_ man, I can't tell if you wanna fight me or bend me over, so pick one and get it over with!"

Billy gawked at him like he'd grown horns. Deep down Billy knew he was throwing back the challenge, like some insult version of chicken to get Billy’s probably homophobic tail between his legs and back down. But it caught him off guard. Rather than reply, Billy’s dumbass vivid imagination played out exactly what Harrington said, in detail right there with the shower and steam as treacherous fodder. Thus his stupid, traitorous dick twitched hard enough to hit Harrington in the thigh. Billy could hear his heart beat pulse straight up to his ears.

Harrington blinked, jaw popping open like a cartoon. Then he pushed away and left Billy standing there until the water ran cold. 

He didn't talk to Harrington for a solid two days, not until he could corner him. Outside was moot, since it was cold as balls in Shit Town in January and Billy didn't think he could get his point across with his teeth chattering.

For two days Billy did not sleep and did not use Harrington as any sort of outlet. He ended up burning through double the amount of cigarettes, got a nice bruiser straight in the gut for stinking up the whole house, and screwed Lanie or Laurie What’s-Her-Face for good measure. His last chance was Friday, unless he showed up at Harrington’s house over the weekend which would do fuck-all but sufficiently convince Harrington he was secretly a panicky bitch for all to see.

So Friday, after practice, when everyone filed away to the showers Billy grabbed Harrington by the collar and snapped, “I need a word, Harrington.”

He dragged him behind the bleachers, out of sight and out of mind of others. Harrington followed without a word of protest, except for an indignant tug at Billy’s hand to remove his fist from his shirt once they were hidden. Billy shoved him against the wall, but barely had the time to say, “Look, whatever the fuck you  _thought_  happened, you keep your mouth shut or I’ll finish the job from Novem—”

Because the next second Harrington had his hands in Billy’s shirt, took advantage of Billy’s surprise again and pulled them both deeper behind the bleachers.

“Hey! You  _want_  a mouthful of blo—!?” Billy didn’t finish again. Harrington shut him up when he shoved him against the wall, crowding into his space and a beat later, kissed him hard. 

Billy sort of realized a few things in that instant, first being Harrington was just a bit taller than him and could easily crowd Billy against the concrete. Second, Harrington was a deceptively good kisser, which maybe explained how he was the crown glory of the school up until some random time before Billy usurped—more picked up forgotten in the dirt, but who's counting—the title. Oh yeah, and apparently Harrington liked dick.

What Billy didn't get was how Harrington had figured out Billy was bent in all the wrong ways, or why Harrington decided  _yes, him_ , when Billy could still remember how Harrington’s teeth felt cutting his knuckles. He wasn't about to complain. Harrington looked like he hadn't slept since that night in November anyway and Billy could do with some relief, too. He  _had_  been flirting with Harrington anyway, though never in a million years did Billy think that would be reciprocated. The point was he fucked with Harrington for a  _reason_ —distance was better, for everyone.

Not so distant now. They kissed for ages under those bleachers, and by the time they heard the doors slam open from the other guys exiting the gym, Harrington had his hands up Billy’s shirt and Billy’s hands were tangled so deep in Harrington’s hair he needed to actually take care to pull it out of that hairsprayed mess. They both did not shower at the school that day.

With that, they started a binge of the greatest tension-relief Billy had ever had in his  _life._  That was how he justified it, at least. They had roughly three months of the weirdest not-friends with benefits, with after-practice blow jobs and quickies in the janitor's closet, Harrington's apparently insatiable need to climb into his lap to sit on his cock in the back of his Bimmer—and Billy couldn't keep his trap shut, he  _had_ to ask how the hell Harrington was  _that_  ready to take something up his ass. All that earned him was a hand clamped over his mouth and Harrington telling him to shut up if Billy wanted to cum inside him, and  _holy jesus fuck_.

For three months the urge to hit dissipated too, for the most part. When Billy was getting laid every other night and sufficiently draining the pent-up anger at what he called a 'home' life, his muscles were too loose to ache with the need to strike something. His mouth still functioned fine though, and Billy sometimes wondered if his brain had been detached from the shit he said via too many blows to the head. Even Harrington had enough of his remarks sometimes and the days of cold-shouldering did not do well for Billy's temper. Oh well. At least he hadn't hit anyone lately. 

Accept for Tommy. That was a win, though.

For that period Harrington got it good too, if Billy did say so himself. If the glazed over look in Harrington's eyes when he pushed inside him, the drool on Billy's shoulder when Harrington couldn't stop moaning, and how quickly he passed out once he spilled on Billy's stomach were any indications. On the worst days, when Billy hurt too much or wanted to hurt too much, he dropped to his knees and told Harrington to not hold back. The way he fucked his mouth and fisted his hair like he would die if he let go made Billy  _transcend_ , he swore to fucking God.

Harrington wasn't a sullen bitch at school as much, either, a lighter step in his slightly-crooked walk, less tiredness under his eyes since Billy kept fucking him unconscious. Harrington was less grumpy, according to his friends Ex-Cow and Alpha Freak, and Billy got out whatever itch was left under his skin with the occasional, mostly harmless fight. So it worked for them.

Until month two started, sometime before Easter and spring break. Billy found himself staring at Harrington a bit too much after they fucked, still flabbergasted that he jumped into bed with him when the outcome of fists versus fuck was about equal when this started. Billy could still remember how jacked his face was, one of his best beat-downs, and it didn’t give Billy much pride. It never did, really. He sort of enjoyed it, but more like the way he enjoyed the first hit of his cigarette before it all turned to ash.  

It wasn’t that  _bad_ , Harrington wasn’t laid up or anything, even if he did have trouble seeing out of that one eye for a while. Besides, if he was getting the shit kicked out of him, why did anyone else get a free pass? 

Billy used to not care. Then the two months of This Thing started, and Billy didn’t feel so apathetic anymore. Not about Harrington.

Harrington caught him staring and frowned that weird annoyed mom way, and said, “I have something on my face, what?”

Billy snorted, and almost said jizz just to watch the revulsion launch Harrington off the bed. That would only make Harrington vacate even quicker than he usually did. 

He never stuck around once they were done, no talking and going their separate ways. Billy would almost feel  _used_ if that wasn’t exactly what he planned for in the first place. Maybe he was worried Billy would flip again.

So Billy didn’t snark at him, and pushed forward. “Your face.”

Harrington blinked at him, and his nose scrunched up with his frown, “Yeah, what about it?”

“Uh.” Billy cleared his throat. He scratched his scalp and gestured at him. “What I did. You know.”

Harrington was lost, face still twisted up and Billy groaned.

“In the freak’s house, Harrington, Jesus!”

“Don’t call him a freak,” was the autopilot reply, though his face softened. “But yeah.”

Billy sighed out the deep breath he was holding, and muttered, “Yeah. So uh. That was a bullshit move.”

Harrington stared at him for so long Billy nearly opened his mouth to ask if his ears were clean, but finally, he nodded. “Yeah. So was all the other crap that night, too, you jackass.”

Billy grumbled. Whatever, no one else was hurt. Max was a shit and she needed to  _listen_ , because when Max didn’t listen  _Billy_  got the brunt of it, the selfish bitch. He let Harrington have it without a fight though, and continued. “Look. I just. I want you to know. I’m not gonna do it again. To you. That was bullshit and you’re not bullshit, so. Yeah. No more fists.”

That awful seriousness made his gut clench, bubbled up at his nerves and Billy grinned before he would help it, and laughed, “I mean, unless it’s a fair fight, Harrington. You really gotta learn how to punch.”

 Harrington didn’t say a word to that, looked at Billy like he told him he was fucking pregnant or some equally unbelievable but shocking thing. Harrington swallowed then, like he forgot how to breathe. “Uh. Okay.”

Billy sucked his teeth. The fuck was Harrington sappy over? Billy essentially promised to not knock any teeth out on purpose. 

He shoved him in the shoulder for good measure and diverted whatever misty-eyed revelation Harrington was having.

“I’m serious! You  _gotta_ learn how to use those fists. No one's gonna go so easy on you.”

Harrington sputtered, and despite all odds, started to laugh. “Oh, really? Like you?”

Billy snorted and cracked another grin, “Yeah, of course I went easy. You’re getting soft, Harrington. I mean, if you want, I could teach you. Then you could throw a  _real_  right hook and sock me when I’m an asshole again.”

Harrington didn’t miss a damn beat, "But I'd be hitting you all the time then."

Billy shoved him again, making him careen onto his back with another laugh.

“Fucking riot,” Billy groused, but found himself grinning again. He climbed onto Harrington’s lap, to make up for knocking him over, and they stopped talking about serious shit in favor of the best grind of Billy’s life. Billy had to keep his hand over Harrington’s mouth to keep from scandalizing the rich boy's parents, so he figured it was pretty fucking good for him, too.

Billy didn’t know what changed after that, or why it did, or even that a change had happened. But the next week, Harrington asked if Billy wanted to go see a movie with him. He said sure. It was an innocuous thing, innocent and Billy had been bored. Dare he say it, it was actually fun hanging with Harrington with their pants on for once.

They did it again the next weekend, and the next. Then the not-friends with benefits became friends with benefits, and Billy found himself hanging with Harrington without screwing in equal parts to when they did. Maybe they started talking more, too. Then the fuck-and-done that was  _working fine_ became fuck-and-talk. Sometimes there wasn’t any sex at all, they just smoked or drank without their catalyst. Which was also fine, since Harrington did most of the talking and Billy would chime in enough to keep him off his back. Harrington was interesting behind that sullen drama, though he sometimes tapered off like he thought he was boring Billy, and Billy would have to poke him in the bellybutton to get him to keep going. Surprisingly enough, the itch almost always stayed quelled whether or not they screwed. Harrington slept fine, too.

Billy thought he wasn't affected by Harrington's queer mushy shit, but he wore him down. Or maybe Billy wore himself down, he didn't know. Over those weeks, the unrest in his head quieted, and Billy stopped flinching away as much when Harrington kissed him. He stopped taunting him when Harrington would talk about anything deeper than team scores. He let Harrington lean against him at the movies. He let himself think it felt good, too.

This was all a  _major_  problem, as the soft touch gave Harrington the impression he could talk about  _other, deeper shit_  Billy would never be prepared for. Three months fucking meant three months of Harrington staring at his bruises, the mottled spots on torso he could hide or lie about when no one was staring at him that closely every damn day. Harrington poked at the scars at his hairline that was hidden by the fringe normal days, asked about the ones on his arms. Billy never thought anyone would get him to talk about it, much less Steve Harrington.

See, the thing with his old man was he never marked him up where people could see them easy. His chest, his stomach, his arms were all fair game and those were the days Billy played Shirts instead of Skins. Only when Neil was angry--and Billy meant  _really_  angry, like when he'd actually fucked up bad and not just Neil's version of it--did he gave him a fat lip, a busted nose or a black eye. Neil rarely did that, because raised questions would come too frequently, and good ol' dad knew Billy was stupid enough to get frazzled or frustrated like he always did, and one of those days he would do something truly moronic like accidentally  _tell the truth_  instead lying. Billy would end up somewhere worse and so would Max because Billy didn’t know how to not fuck up. So Neil was careful. He'd always been careful, as far back as Billy could remember.

Billy was worn down one night two months in, after it had been a long time since Neil had hit him. So long that Billy convinced himself that they finally settled in, that Neil was happy with the move and simmered down and as long as Billy didn't raise his voice and did what he was told, maybe this could be indefinite. Everyone had their breaking point, though, everyone was a cocked gun ready to blow and it was only a matter of time before that gun went off.

It did, in the form of a black eye and several fist-sized spots on his ribs. Dumb shit he was, Billy decided not to look for a fight—or maybe he did, he really didn't know anymore—and he drove Harrington’s abode.

Nothing happened at first, though not for lack of trying on Harrington’s part. He said some snide comment about whether the other guy looked worse or not, and Billy kissed him to shut him up and hauled him to his bedroom. It was a lucky night—a normal night—that his parents were gone, another business trip before they came back for the weekend. Not that they didn’t screw with his parents close by, Billy just snuck in instead, but this way they could be loud.

They never got that far. Harrington shoved his shirt off, and saw the bruises discoloring his torso. Billy didn’t know what set him off, probably a thousand things between how frayed he felt and the ache over his eye he had almost forgotten, but when Harrington poked at his bruises and said, "Shit, man, you're really a glutton for punishment, huh?" Billy  _snapped._ He went full fucking John Bender on him. 

After shoving Harrington off and sitting up half naked on his bed, Billy couldn't stop  _laughing._ And when he wasn't laughing, the words poured out of his mouth like poison, never looking at Harrington and not catching up to the speed of the words rushing out. "Wow, holy shit Harrington, you got it all figured out. I fucking  _love_  punishment, you're a goddamn grade-A genius, huh? I just  _love_ getting the shit beat out of me, just me and dear old pappy on the weekends busting up my ribs, having a grand old time! You know what, sometimes I think about throwing  _myself_ down some stairs on the lonely nights, but it just doesn't scratch it right, it just. Hoo boy, it just doesn't do it for me, you know? How about you add a few, Harrington, just bust my face in and I'll cum on the fucking spot!"

Only after Harrington lost all the color in his face, and Billy was standing over him, fist in his shirt and didn't remember kicking over Harrington's chair, did Billy realize just what he had done. Billy never knew how to shut his trap, something he never learned no matter how hard Neil tried, never could bite his tongue like a normal person. Yeah, his old man had been right about him. Again.

Harrington didn’t say a word, instead looked ready to puke on him so Billy gathered his shit and left. He slept in his Camaro that night.

A week later, after they didn't so much as look at each other the whole time, Harrington slipped Billy a note to meet him after practice. Against better judgement Billy followed him the equipment closet they could lock from the inside—a favorite that Harrington showed him around week two. Billy didn’t say anything, but Harrington didn’t either. It wasn't really a break-up because it was never anything like that, but Billy still felt his stomach roll anyway. What if Harrington wanted him to talk about it? What if Harrington wanted to  _tell someone_? What if he'd already told someone, what if this was a courtesy call to--

Instead Harrington dropped to his knees, still not saying a word and took Billy in his mouth, didn't complain when Billy fisted his hands in his hair, hurt him when he pulled and came down his throat with a stuttered groan. 

Other than asking a quiet, "Did you tell anyone?" and receiving a shake of his head in return, they didn't talk about it then, and didn’t talk about it later.

Harrington sought revenge for the hair thing later, though, which,  _awesome_.

Maybe they didn't talk about that just yet, but spring break rolled around and Harrington, somehow, did not have plans other than babysitting tweens and catching up on essays. Neil, Susan and Max had all decided to do family vacation and Billy graciously was not invited. Susan said something about his studies. Neil said nothing. It was perfect. 

They didn't talk about Billy sort of squatting on his couch for most of it, he had nowhere to go except maybe road trip somewhere, but gas money was negligible. So Billy pestered Harrington, and his parents, much to Harrington’s shock, liked Billy.

 _"He’s been so wrapped up in his school work, Billy," "It’s nice to see him invite friends again,_ ”  _  
"Thank goodness he got rid of those bad influences,"_ his mother fawned every single time Billy stopped by. Billy, naturally, charmed the pants off the both of them, all while Harrington gagged, groaned and made slashing motions over his throat behind them the entire time. His horror made it oh, so worth it.

He spent too many hours and too many days up Harrington’s ass—figuratively and well, not—and Billy started talking more, too. He figured Harrington would never be into it, but after that silent mess of a week post-breakdown, Billy decided to test the waters. He shared some Metallica and Anthrax with Harrington, and of course some Van Halen, the good ones that Billy listened to. Harrington cringed his way through it but listened to it all. He had a way of listening that he looked enraptured, confused, or downright disturbed like Harrington had never learned how not to wear his emotions on his face, or his heart on his sleeve. It was jarring, how open he was, and honest.

Something possessed him while staring at Steve Harrington sitting on his bed, looking at home in the space Billy called his, small and mediocre compared to Steve’s house but looking like he belonged there anyway. While Steve quietly listened to his music Billy blurted out that the music helped him zone out and stop thinking, made him forget where he was, and sometimes when he blasted it in his car, it felt a little bit like he was back in California.

Steve’s face relaxed, not so concentrated anymore, and didn’t cringe when he listened to the next tape. He ended up playing Eruption by Eddie for him, told him it changed his life, and Steve  _agreed_. Steve had climbed onto his lap in the middle and rode him until Billy couldn't see straight and he was pretty sure he forgot all English accept for Steve Harrington's name.

After that, he kept sharing. Sue him. Fuck, Billy knew Steve was turning him into a gushy mess and Billy found himself not minding it. When he laughed with Steve, he wasn't putting on a show anymore. He didn't need to hide it. And damn, Steve actually found him  _funny_. Steve himself could be a damn riot when he wanted to be, too.

It was after spring break when Steve said it the first time. He said it on the day they played hooky from school, almost half a year after Billy beat his face in to assuage some of the gnawing, broiling itch that refused to go away. Steve could throw a hell of a right hook now, and he was quicker that Billy, which meant he got pinned a lot. He definitely didn’t mind that.

When they broke free from school and hopped into Billy's Camaro, speeding down the road with the windows down, Steve let out a full drama queen fake-sob, dropping his seat back to bemoan to the ceiling, "Oh god, it's been so long!"

Billy cackled and asked when he'd done it last, and Steve admitted he hadn't since junior year. That hurt  _Billy_.

They got booze and cigarettes, snuck into a movie through an exit Steve had rigged broken a long time ago—he was so  _proud—_ and sat in the back row of the empty theater and substituted obscene dialogue for  _Lifeforce_. Steve absolutely hated it, but Billy kinda liked it. Not Oscar winning, but perfect for panning.

"Oh no, my life force! You're sucking the wrong thing!" Billy clutched his heart while his voiced raised three octaves higher than any chick's normal and Harrington guffawed, nearly toppling their bottle to the floor when he leaned into Billy's shoulder. He moved it out of the way and whacked Harrington lightly in the head with it. 

"My king be careful, I need this to get through another sucking," Billy said in the Voice and Steve wheezed, dropping down in Billy's lap and it's really not fair how easy Steve rests there. 

"But Queen, what else is there to suck from you?" Steve challenged, and Billy pouted.

"Give me five, no, three minutes," he said and Steve laughed again.

"Fuck, stop the voice!"

"What voice, this is what I sound like now, King Steve."

Steve groaned and shoved him in the arm, grinning so wide it crinkled up his eyes. There was almost no trace of eye-bags there anymore. Steve had been sleeping great. Billy didn't have a trace of a bruise anywhere.

Then Steve, faking the big bemoan from earlier, said it. "You're lucky I love you."

But Billy, still ready to reply with the Voice was  _absolutely sure_ Steve was still playing the joke. Because of it he didn't process until later that Harrington's eyes had shot open wide, staring up at Billy like he was about to witness a car crash. 

Billy laughed, and affected the voice again, "Yes your Highness, I love you too, you and your lifeforce."

Billy nearly tripped saying the proclamation himself and maybe that's what slowed him down enough to realize Steve didn't look right to be telling a joke. But Steve ended up biting his lips in attempts to keep from snickering, which just blew the most ridiculous snorting sound up into his nose that had Billy laughing at him. That panic faded and Steve shoved off of Billy to keep watching the movie.

So the first time, Billy didn't even realize it was a  _thing_. Not that it was a thing. It could never be a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos always greatly appreciated <3
> 
> Come find me on my writing blog nevtelenwriting.tumblr.com


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